Conditioner slicks through my fingers as I think about the fittings. Final pin checks. Steam out wrinkles. Photograph every look for reference in case something gets swapped at the last minute. Pack the emergency kit—safety pins, fashion tape, double-sided tape, lint rollers, stain remover, scissors, needle, and thread in every neutral color. I should text Tony to confirm he grabbed the shoe labels.
After the event preview, there are meetings. Designers who’ve reached out, curious about my work. Some are serious. Some are just fishing. I’ll need to be sharp either way. Business cards are ready. Portfolio loaded on my tablet. Practice the calm, confident version of my story instead of the one that reveals how surprised I am to be here.
The water cools slightly as someone elsewhere in the clubhouse turns on a tap. I open my eyes and breathe, grounding myself. This isn’t just about the show. It’s about visibility. About proving I can handle the pressure, the pace, the chaos backstage without falling apart. This is the most important week of my life. I can’t screw it up.
I shut off the water and step onto the mat, wrapping a towel around my hair. My phone is waiting on the counter, screen dark but heavy with responsibility. There will be messages. Questions. Last-minute changes. There always are.
I catch my reflection in the fogged mirror—bare-faced, focused, steady. Nervous, yeah. Terrified, maybe. But ready.
Today is only the first day.
After I get dressed, I hesitate with my hand on the doorknob. Should I head downstairs by myself? What will I find when I get down there? I’ve read stories about what goes on in MC clubhouses. I could go downstairs and find myself surroundedby naked men and women sleeping off the previous night’s party. What if I Bush is down there? I take two deep breaths as I think about finding Bush naked with a girl draped over him.
I squeak in surprise when someone pounds on my door. I yank it open to find a wide-eyed Bush on the other side.
“Were you standing on the other side?” he asks.
I feel myself flush with embarrassment. “Yeah, I was. I was debating on going downstairs.’
He gives me a peculiar look, but offers me his hand. I take it.
“I wouldn’t have let you go downstairs alone. Not that you’d be in any danger, but I know the clubhouse can be intimidating for someone not used to the life.”
When we reach the bottom floor, I see several people sitting at tables eating. Thankfully, they are all clothed. I turn my head when I hear someone call out to Bush. Chrome is sitting at a table with Cicely on his lap. He’s feeding her and himself from the plate piled high with food in front of him.
“We’ll be right there,” Bush calls out before ushering me into the kitchen. Three women are inside, each one manning an appliance. One is at the stove, cooking scrambled eggs and sausage. The other is at the oven, drawing out a cookie sheet with hash browns and bacon sizzling. The third is working the toaster and the coffee maker. Each of the girls is wearing cut-off jeans and the tiniest tank tops I’ve ever seen.
“Hey, Bush, are you hungry?” the one at the stove asks with a wide smile.
“Starved,” he replies.
“Well, if you wait a few minutes, I’ll be done with this batch, and you can eat me,” she says with a flirty grin.
I stumble at her words. Bush chuckles as he wraps his arm around my waist to settle me.
“Thanks for the offer, Crystal, but I think I’ll just settle for eggs, hash browns, and sausage. Throw on a piece of toast, Megan.” He turns to me. “What do you want?”
“Um, just eggs and bacon. Maybe a piece of toast. And coffee. I’m desperate for some coffee.”
“You got it.”
The women pass the plates around among themselves as they pile the food on. The one called Crystal stares at me as she works. I feel uncomfortable under the scrutiny, but luckily, they work quickly. Bush takes both our plates and gestures for me to precede him out of the kitchen.
“We’ll sit with Chrome,” Bush says as he directs me to their table. Bush sets my plate down, then holds the chair out for me.
“Good morning, Zara,” Chrome says. “How did you sleep?”
“Good. I was exhausted,” I say, smiling at him and Cicely. “Thank you for letting me stay here last night.”
“You’re welcome. You can stay here as long as you want.”
I shake my head. “I need to check into the hotel. The next week is going to be insane, and I need to be close to the action.” I notice the look Bush and Chrome share. “What?”
Bush opens his mouth, but then closes it again. I can tell he’s searching for the right words, but is having difficulty. “Just tell me.”
“We went to the hotel and confronted Menace,” Chrome starts, drawing my attention from Bush. “We don’t yet know why the Bushrangers are here. They didn’t mention Bush, and we know they were asking for you.”
I frown as I consider his statement. “You think they’re here for me? Why would they be here for me? What would they want with me?”
